DAY 4 (after this):


He reads the letter while he lies in bed with bandages wrapped around his upper back and chest wishing he were anywhere else but here.

To my handsome Prince.

That is as far as he gets before he puts it down again.

Three hours later, he picks it back up and reads the next sentence.

It's funny, but the connection we had, it was a deep one.

Deep and painful, he thinks, and how is that fair? How is it fair that upon coming to Deus he had already built walls around his heart, walls that had stemmed not just from Patrick's death, but from a life spent trying too hard to please those who didn't care and held no more love for him. How is it fair that he had expected to come to Deus and do the work without the pain, separate himself from making connections because being close to people was too painful?

How is it fair that from the moment he had met Nevada, from the moment he had met Shiloh, the walls had come crumbling down until they were dust at his feet?

He reads the next few sentences.

t didn't take much for us to come together and I often wondered why that was? Affectionate. You were my partner without being romantic. Affections came with and for nothing more then what they were suppose to be. Affection. That's what I feel for you, along with love.

Because, Ian thinks, you were me and I was you. We were two halves of the same whole, two sides of the same coin. You understood me in a way that no one else did, not even Shiloh. You held my heart in your hand and you kept it safe. You knew how fragile it was without my having to say so, and you never judged me for it.

I told you about Patrick, and all you did was stroke my hair and hold me close and tell me how sorry you were without pitying me.

You always reminded me of a prince though, so mature and handsome.

I'm not, Ian tells himself, and pain shoots up his back at every move, every little gesture. He flinches, lets out a little gasp, but manages to push himself upright anyway, fingers clenching the letter tightly in one hand. He's glad he's alone; Quinn worries too much and Alistaire worries too little. Here and now he can sit and read this letter, these painful last words from Nevada in peace and quiet, without having to worry about anyone seeing him.

Without having to think about anything but Nevada.

So troubled and aloof. Romantic and kind one moment, Scared but accepting in others. I suppose that's how you came to be a prince to me. Sometime I'd imagine you'd scale walls, fly on magic carpets, slay a dragon or two. It must be all the disney movies I watched with Stormy, and the books I read with Alaska when I was a child.

I hope you know that I was always happy, I became happier, that you had found yourself here. On this terrible piece of land floating in the sea. A miserable place with humans more then willing to kill each other for a simple statement of words...for friends to turn on each other, for nothing more then a mission gone wrong. You had your moment with Shy, but you haven't left his side. It's something I admire, I love.

He can feel his breath coming out shorter now, each one seeming labored and painful, and it's like he's being stabbed all over again, his chest tight, hardly able to draw air into his lungs. He wants so desperately to finish reading this letter, but he wants also to not read it, he wants to crumple it between his fingers and throw it away, far away, where it can never be reached, where the pain will stop before it reaches him -

- and for a second he almost does that. His thumb presses a little too hard on the corner of the page and it crinkles, the noise startling him out of his thoughts, and he quickly tries to smooth the letter out again, his movements hasty, almost panicked, because this is Nevada's last letter to him.

These are Nevada's last thoughts, and even when she was dying, she had remembered Shiloh.

(He doesn't want to remember Shiloh; remembering Shiloh is too painful.)

Ian's eyes move to the next part of the letter.

Will you remain strong after I leave?

No.

Selfishly, I want you to mourn, to miss me.

I do mourn. I do miss you, every day, every moment, every second of every hour.

But more then that, I want you to live and continue living strong.

I can't.

I want you to do the things I couldn't do. I want you to become a better prince then I could ever be. Slay the dragons, climb the walls. Nothing stops you.

I'm stopping myself. I'm not strong enough. I can't do it.

I can't slay these dragons, Nevada. Not anymore.

Not without you.

I'll be watching over you, when I pass. I'll be watching over you, Otto and Stormy. So don't think I won't see what you do! No drinking after I pass. Go on a date with Shy! Meet Otto! Please talk to Otto more. I don't want him to be alone. And Stormy, please talk to her. Watch over them if you can.

I need to stop now, I have two more letters to write and only a little more time to do it.

I love you my handsome prince.

Nevada

The letter remains in his hand for quite some time after he finishes reading it. Ian sits on the bed and leans back against the wall, his eyes unfocused as he stares out at the wall, his back aching; but the pain is nothing compared to how he feels inside, how his heart is breaking with each and every word printed neatly in Nevada's handwriting on this piece of paper.

He pushes himself back upright and reaches for his bedside table, pulling open one of the drawers. Inside is a little notebook, leatherbound and black, and Ian flips open the covers. Carefully he folds Nevada's letter in quiet, precise movements, smoothing his fingers over the paper. He starts to put it in the book and pauses. His eyes are focused on the name scrawled at the bottom, at the way she curved her letters, rounded her A's; and all of a sudden, his heart is in his throat, and everything is blurred, his vision hazy.

He pushes the letter into the book and closes it just in time because in the next second the tears have come spilling out, and he's screaming in agony and despair, pushing his face into his pillow to muffle the sound, his fingers clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles are starkly white against his tan skin.

I miss you, Ian thinks desperately, and he's not even sure who the "you" is that he's talking about anymore, if it's just Nevada or if Shiloh and Patrick are included too.

I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you

He unclenches and digs his fingers into the pillow, and screams and screams and screams until there's nothing left to scream and his throat is raw and dry and his tears have run out and there's nothing left of anything anymore.